Chapter 7 - The Longest Seven Hours of My Life
They arrived at Mercy General at 5 a.m. on July 12, the hospital parking lot still mostly empty, the sky just starting to lighten over the D.C. skyline. Grace was quiet, her hand clamped around Nathan’s so tight her knuckles were white, as they walked to the admitting desk, as a nurse led them to the pre-op room, as she changed into the thin, scratchy hospital gown.
Margaret showed up 20 minutes later, holding a small cooler of ice chips and Grace’s favorite lip balm, her eyes red from crying. She hugged Grace tight, whispering something in her ear that made Grace smile through her tears, then hugged Nathan, squeezing his arm. “She’s strong, baby. She’s gonna get through this.”
“I know,” Nathan said, his voice hoarse. He hadn’t slept more than an hour the night before, his stomach churning with fear, his mind running through every worst-case scenario he could imagine.
A nurse came in a few minutes later, carrying a tray of meds, and helped Grace into the bed, starting an IV in her hand. Grace winced as the needle went in, then looked up at Nathan, her eyes big and scared. “I don’t wanna do this, Nate. I’m scared.”
He sat down on the edge of the bed, brushing her hair off her face, and leaned his forehead against hers. “I know, baby. I know. But it’s gonna be okay. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. As soon as you’re out of surgery, I’ll be the first face you see. I promise.”
The anesthesiologist came in a few minutes later, a kind-faced woman in her 50s, and explained what would happen: they’d give her something to make her sleepy, then wheel her into the OR, put her under general anesthesia, and the surgery would take 4–6 hours, maybe longer depending on what they found. “We’ll take good care of her, Mr. Brooks,” she said, patting his shoulder. “She’s in the best hands.”
Grace squeezed his hand one last time as the nurses wheeled the bed toward the OR doors. “I love you,” she said, her voice slurred from the sedative they’d given her. “Tell the baby I love her too. The one we’re gonna adopt.”
“I will,” he said, his voice breaking. “I love you more than anything. See you soon.”
The OR doors swung shut, and Nathan stood there, staring at them, until they clicked closed. Then he turned around, walked to the small chapel at the end of the hallway, and sat down in the back pew, his head in his hands. He wasn’t a religious man—hadn’t been to church since his mom died when he was 18—but he prayed that day. He prayed harder than he’d ever prayed in his life. He prayed for the surgeons’ hands to be steady, for the cancer to be gone, for Grace to wake up, for them to get their future. He prayed for forgiveness for the year he’d wasted, for being so blind, for almost losing her because of his own fear.
As he sat there, waiting, he let his mind wander, replaying every good memory they’d ever made. He thought of their wedding, in Margaret’s backyard, 200 of their closest friends and family, Grace in a simple white dress, her face glowing as she walked down the aisle. He thought of their first house, the tiny fixer-upper in Alexandria they’d bought when they were 24, how they’d spent six months renovating it themselves, sleeping on an air mattress on the floor, eating microwave popcorn for dinner because they couldn’t afford a stove. He thought of the night his dad died, how Grace had held him while he cried for 12 hours straight, how she’d called all his family and made all the arrangements without him having to say a word. He thought of the cross-country road trip they’d taken the year before, driving from D.C. to San Francisco, getting lost in Wyoming, staying in a tiny motel with a neon sign that flickered, dancing in the rain to a country song on the radio. He thought of all the small, perfect moments: morning coffee together, lazy Sundays watching football, late-night talks about nothing and everything. All of it flashed through his mind, and he realized that every single one of those moments was a gift. A gift he’d almost thrown away.
Three hours passed. Then four. Then five. Margaret brought him coffee, tried to get him to eat a sandwich from the cafeteria, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t swallow. He just sat there, staring at the chapel’s stained glass window, waiting. At the six-hour mark, he started pacing the hallway outside the surgical waiting room, his boots thudding on the linoleum, his phone clutched in his hand. Rico texted him every hour, asking for updates. Lila texted him from the ER, telling him she’d checked in with the OR nurses, that everything was still going well. But Nathan couldn’t relax. Not until he saw Grace. Not until the doctor told him she was okay.
Seven hours after they’d wheeled her back, the double doors to the surgical wing opened, and a man in blue scrubs, a mask pulled down around his neck, walked out, holding a clipboard. “Mr. Brooks? Mrs. Brooks’ husband?”
Nathan’s heart stopped. He walked over, his legs shaking, Margaret right behind him, her hand clutching his arm. “That’s me. Is she okay? Did it work?”
The surgeon smiled, a small, tired smile, and nodded. “The surgery went well. Longer than we expected—we found the tumor had spread to a small section of her omentum and her left fallopian tube, but we were able to remove all of it. Clear margins on every sample we took. No signs of spread to her lymph nodes or her other organs.” He paused, flipping through the clipboard. “She’ll need six rounds of adjuvant chemo, followed by five weeks of daily radiation, to make sure we get any microscopic cells we might have missed. And there’s a 35% chance of recurrence in the next five years, so she’ll need close follow-up—scans every three months for the first two years, then every six months after that. But… we got it all. For now.”
Nathan collapsed onto a nearby chair, his legs giving out, and sobbed. Margaret cried next to him, wrapping her arms around him, as the surgeon patted his shoulder. “She’s in recovery now. You can see her in about 30 minutes. She’ll be sleepy, but she’ll be able to hear you.”
Thirty minutes later, a nurse led Nathan and Margaret into the recovery room. Grace was lying in the bed, her face pale, tubes and wires coming out of her arms and her nose, her eyes closed. Nathan walked over, sitting down in the hard plastic chair next to the bed, and took her hand. It was cold, so cold, but it was her. She was alive. She was here.
“Hey, baby,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “I’m here. The surgery went great. You did it. You’re gonna be okay.”
Grace’s eyes fluttered open, hazy and confused, and she smiled a tiny, sleepy smile when she saw him. “Told you,” she mumbled, her voice slurred. “We got this.”
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Nathan laughed through his tears, leaning down and kissing her forehead. “Yeah, baby. We got this.”
He didn’t leave the hospital for the next three days. He slept in the uncomfortable chair next to her bed, only leaving to use the bathroom and get coffee, helping the nurses turn her, helping her walk to the bathroom, holding her hand when she got nauseous from the pain meds. Lila brought him food, Rico brought him a change of clothes, Margaret sat with Grace during the day so Nathan could nap for an hour or two. It was hard. It was exhausting. But it was perfect. Because Grace was alive. And they were together. And for the first time in a long time, Nathan dared to believe that maybe, just maybe, they’d get their happy ending.
